


all i know since yesterday (is everything has changed).

by michellejjones



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 13:03:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4920667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michellejjones/pseuds/michellejjones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This particular story is the story of</p><p>-a Scottish genius<br/>-one guitar<br/>-a broken shield<br/>-a man who cheated me<br/>-hazel eyes<br/>-and alien threats.</p><p>Really, it's pitiful, how I saw Leopold Fitz seven times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all i know since yesterday (is everything has changed).

**Author's Note:**

> First Fitzsimmons fic. I didn't proof read, so sorry for any mistakes. Also, the narration is different. I got the idea from The Book Thief (which I do not own). It's in Death's POV. Plus, lots of time jumps. And death. Mostly Fitz-centric, but lots of Jemma to come. Enjoy!

I don't look at them.

Or, at least, I try my best not to. Those people smoldering with loss, once the color of bright red but now turned dark gray beneath my arms.

But I fail. Once in a while, my sore eyes fall on another suffering human, and I cannot look away.

 _-_ I'm sorry.  
Where are my manners?  
Introductions.  
I am Death.

(And you are Dying.)

Which, I suppose, brings me to my next point.

When my eyes fall on another person who's loved ones soul I've just picked up, I sometimes cannot look away. Sometimes, against my better judgement, I watch them. I read their story. If you want, you can read it with me. This particular story is the story of

-a Scottish genius  
-one guitar  
-a broken shield  
-a man who cheated me  
-hazel eyes  
-and alien threats.

Really, it's pitiful, how I saw Leopold Fitz seven times.

* * *

The first time I saw him, it was in a small town, with broken yellow glass napping on a tired black street. It dripped red, right into the sewers.

A boy was crying.

His green eyes were filled with clear blue that made his face look older. He was curled up in a ball, clutching the hand of a young girl. A man with red hair and a deep rogue stood in front of him, yelling abuse that the boy -who was around ten at the time- was already familiar with. It didn't bother him. No, what bothered him, I suppose, was the fragmented beer bottle the man held in one hand, and the bat he held in the other.

Lisbeth Fitz was lying down when I picked her up. Rarely do I get souls sitting or standing for me. She was clinging to her mortal body, eyes screwed tight, head bashed in. I loosened her and held her in my arms. She was warm, and when she looked at me, her head shook slowly. It took her a few minutes to relax.

This was when I should have turned my eyes downward. If I'd been feeling intelligent, I'd have taken in the split tiles and leaning house, currently a beat up lavander. If I'd been feeling intelligent, I wouldn't have looked at Leopold Fitz.

I was not feeling intelligent.

I stared at him, who's eyes were focussed on what I made out to be his father (Arthur Fitz), and realized that the boy's hand hadn't left his sister's. He had to have known she was dead. She'd been dead for some time before I'd arrived, and yet, he remained there, unwilling to let her go.

I suppose that was a forewarning to the type of person he was.

The type of person to never give up on a loved one, even when he knew it to be hopeless.

(poor Fitz.)

I stayed as long as I could, watching the boy take in the abuse with startling calmness. His mother came home to the commotion a few minutes after I left. Lisbeth couldn't keep her eyes off her brother. Leopold could not keep his eyes off his sister.

I suppose that's the way with twins.

The sky was a dying pink when I left.

That was the first time I saw him.

* * *

After that incident, years went by til I saw the Scottish genius again. In that time, it had become clear that he was smarter than the average fifteen-year-old. He excelled at almost everything he did, save for physical training. Mechanics was his specialty, but there was one thing he was even better at.

Music.

He could play piano, trombone, ukele, harp, clarinet, flute, trumpet, trombone, banjo, drums, and the bagpipes.

His favorite instrument, however, was the guitar.

He could play a guitar like a dying man with a shining talent. Indeed, if it hadn't been for one fateful day in the leaning lavender house with split tiles, Fitz would probably be in Carnegie Hall right now. How different life would be.

(Better? For him, yes.  
For the world, no.)

The next time I met Fitz, he was playing his guitar and singing a song that he'd written himself, I think. It had a folkish tune to it, and as he sang, police knocked on a leaning door. "You," he sang, "are the blood of the innocent, the twin of a tune I used to sing. Come, open your arms to sin and fly on death's open wings."

Which I found quite funny.

I don't have wings.

(though they'd be quite helpful, really.)

It was then that a gunshot rang through the neighborhood, and he stopped short of his singing, shivering towards the next verse but never reaching it. A female voice rang through the house and gave Fitz a start. "Put your hands up, Mrs. Fitz. Put down the gun. Don't make us shoot you. What would your son say?"

"He'd say lick my a-"

There was a scuffle, chairs kicked over, and Fitz ran downstairs, the guitar still in his hand. What met his eyes was life-changing.

the scene that met Leopold Fitz in the downstairs part of the lavender walls:

-a broken table; their  _only_  table  
-ringlets of blood, skittering across the yellow tiles  
-a dead policeman  
-Fitz's mother, in handcuffs, nose broken  
-Arthur Fitz outside, flirting with a policewoman and looking frightened  
-a bag of marijuana sitting on the floor.

"Leopold Fitz?" A man asked him. Dazedly, the boy answered.

"Just Fitz."

"Fitz." The man nodded, "Fitz, I'd like you to come with us."

The boy scoffed, the guitar still gripped in his hand like his sister had been, many years ago. "What for?"

"Your mother's been accused of selling drugs, boy. We've got a few questions."

Oh.

I knelt down, then, snatching the policeman's soul with ease and flinging him over my shoulder. I was almost out the door when I heard it.

Broken strings. Splintering wood. Dying music. With regret, I turned around, taking in the sight of Fitz's guitar, dented and dead. The owner's face was red.

"YOU'RE  _LYING!"_ Fitz screamed, and he kicked his guitar. "YOU'RE ALL FUCKING LIARS, Y'HEAR? LIARS. YOU COULDN'T SOLVE A MYSTERY IF THE ANSWER HIS YOU IN THE ARSE, YOU'RE ALL SO  _STUPID."_ Another kick. "JUST LIKE WITH LISBETH, YOU DIDN'T EVEN ARREST THE RIGHT PERSON, GODDAMN IT." A stomp, this time. The wood heaved upwards. I was starting to wonder if I should carry  _it_  out, too. Fitz took a breath, cracked the neck of his guitar, and stepped towards the officer. Maybe it was the fact that he was a teenaged boy with fiery Scottish blood, or maybe it was the situation, but even I was nervous, then.

"She's  _innocent._ Innocent, y'hear me?" The officer nodded. He looked almost bored. "It's that pig out there you should be arresting. One day you'll see that she's innocent. You'll see." Fitz heaved.

"She still murdered an officer."

"Did he touch something?"

"Only that lamp."

"She and that lamp have a history." Fitz shrugged. "I'm sorry about your officer, but my mother isn't the monster here."

The policeman nodded. "We still need to take you in, boy."

Fitz nodded. With a trembling hand (he still was, after all, fifteen), he picked up his shattered guitar. We walked out the door together. Saw his father exchange numbers with the policewoman and saw his mother pushed into a cab.

I walked one way, Fitz walked the other.

That was not, unfortunately, the last of our meetings.

* * *

Five months passed, and Fitz's mother was deemed mentally unstable. She was placed in a hospital an hour from their house. For eleven months, it was Leopold and Arthur Fitz in a dirty black house (the walls had been painted to match its occupants' moods). Trash framed the floor.

One day, when Fitz came home from school (he remembers this vividly, he told me, many years later), the sky was a burnt blue as he opened the door to his house and stepped inside.

Instruments were strewn apart, broken. Amongst them was his new guitar, all the strings torn off and the neck bent. His father was sitting on the steps of the stars, and when they met each others eyes a silent conversation passed between them.

the conversation went as followed:  
"Oh. You're home. Welcome back, bastard."  
"I'm going to kill you."  
"Try."

"Do you like the new decoration?" Arthur began. "I do. It's less noisy, don't you agree?"

For the first time in his life, Fitz was speechless.

When we met each other, face to face, eons later, he told me he'd wanted to respond. But he couldn't. So he did the next best thing.

He acted.

Fitz walked towards his father's room, silent. The voice of a lost man called after him, "Cat got your tongue? Well, thank  _God._  Your singing makes me want to go deaf, boy. You should quit."

"Yeah?" Fitz called as he picked up the rifle that hung from underneath the bed. "Maybe I will. Go into mechanics or something."

"That would be good. Make me some money. It's about time you pay me back for all my hospitality."

"I'll do that." Fitz agreed. He slowly cocked the rifle and walked back into the den. His father's back was to him. "Have you seen the giant pimple on my face? I'm a laughingstock at school."

Arthur laughed, and turned around to make fun of his son. What met him instead was a rifle, and, behind his son, me. "Ah." He said. "Don't do this, son. You'll regret it."

Fitz nodded. "Maybe." He said, "But right now, I don't care. Any last words?"

His father turned around. "I won't let you get away with claiming it was self defense. I'm a drunk. I'm not stupid. Murder me, boy. If you have the guts."

Green eyes flashed.

Gunpowder fell to the floor.

an image for you:

brown eyes and a bleeding forehead meet a teenager's line of sight.  
I bend down to take the writhing soul of a twisted man.  
The teenager, a Scottish genius, remembers one of the last words of his father:  
 _"Your singing makes me want to go deaf, boy. You should quit."  
_ Green eyes surrender. A brilliant mind swears to never touch an instrument again.

Leopold Fitz was sixteen when he killed his father.

* * *

Phil Coulson and I are close friends. On the rare evenings when my load is light, I stop by and we chat. It's quite pleasant.

Before we met, however, he met Fitz. In a Scottish cell that smelled of whiskey, with orange lights hanging from the ceiling, Phil shook the hand of a teenage genius.

Who had murdered his father.

It was Phil who told me of this encounter, years after it happened. "We could use a genius like you. Your brilliance at mechanics, your musical talents-"

"I don't do that anymore."

"What? Sing? Why not?" Phil asked him. His forehead creased. "You're so good at it. And the guitar too, I hear. Maybe you could teach me. I'm more of a cello fan, but I can dig guitar too."

"I just don't." Fitz sniffed.

A smirk.

A glare.

An understanding.

Coulson shrugged. "Then we'll just take your brilliance in the science department, then. What do you say? You'll get to save the world. Put your talents to use. It'll be fun."

The Scottish boy (eighteen; he'd been in jail two years), ran a series of scenarios in his mind. "Sure." He finally said. "On one condition."

"Which is?"

"You keep my mother comfortable." Fitz responded. "At all costs."

Phil sucked in a breath.

He seemed to be listening.

After a few seconds, he nodded. "Agreed."

They shook hands. A promise to come back two days later.

And so, it began.

* * *

Four years passed before I saw the boy again. In those two years, he'd never sung a tune or played an instrument. No one but those who read his file knew he could play the harp, or guitar, or piano.

Though, at one point, he came close.

In those four years, he met a girl with hazel eyes. When he looked at them, he felt as if he was coming home.

a few facts about the hazel eyed girl:

-she was just as smart as Fitz, if not smarter  
-she was British  
-she was beautiful  
-she made a mean sandwich  
-her name was Jemma Simmons.  
-Leopold Fitz loved her.

In a totally platonic way, he liked convincing himself. Often, he'd flirt with other girls to take his mind off the beautiful best friend he had, but when he held the door for Ms. Simmons, it was of no avail.

That's the way with friends, I suppose.

They did everything together, so much so, that people had taken to calling them by one name: Fitzsimmons. The two didn't mind (actually, they kind of liked it), and they certainly lived up to the meshed surnames.

It happened one evening, during their third year together, that Fitz was walking home the beautiful Jemma Simmons. They'd been talking about Bruce Banner and the brilliant-yet-flawed plan that had resulted in a green rage monster, when they stumbled across an ice cream parlor. "Want some?" Simmons asked him.

"I don't have any money on me."

She smiled at him, "I'll buy."

He smiled back.

Young love.

"Well," he smirked, "In that case, I'll have two scoops of chocolate with m&m's mixed in, thanks very much. In a waffle cone, too."

Simmons scoffed and rolled her eyes, heading towards the door. A faint smile traced her lips. "Pig."

"I believe that's the very definition of boy." Fitz retorted, as the door closed behind her.

The night air was cooler when his best friend was gone. In the distance, he could hear the study beat of a voice and what sounded like bongos.

His heart ached, as it does when brilliance goes untouched.

Around the corner came a teenaged girl, her curly brown hair spilling across the sets of her shoulders. Her dress was dripping white, and her smile was crooked, almost painted on. "Take this." She said, and shoved a guitar into his arms. "I don't want it ever again."

 _You're lying._ He wanted to tell her, because tears were clouding her eyes.  _You're making a mistake. Don't give this up._

He wanted to tell her.

But he did not.

Instead, Leopold Fitz nodded. "Then don't."

The girl stared at the Scottish genius a second too long. "I won't." She finally said, and ran off.

His fingers traced the edges of the guitar. It was a little too small, but right now, he didn't care. His hand ghosted above the frets and rested in a position that seemed a little too advanced to be accidental. "You are the blood of the innocent." He mouthed, but nothing came out.

The door behind him opened.

"Double chocolate with m&ms in a waffle cone. Enjoy." Simmons said. She stared at the instrument in his hand and her eyes narrowed. "What's that?"

Fitz breathed out.

Life, He wanted to say. Instead, he said, "Some girl shoved it into my arms and said she didn't want it anymore. Would you like it? Early birthday present."

"Do you play?" Jemma asked him, instead. She was staring at the way his hands rested.

Fitz grimaced. "I used to. Long time ago."

She nodded. She opened her mouth to prod, but then thought better of it. "Would you like it?" Fitz asked her again.

Simmons huffed. "Actually, yes." She said, and grabbed it. Fitz felt like he'd been robbed, but smiled at the beautiful girl anyway.

Fitzsimmons walked on.

* * *

Two years after the guitar incident, S.H.I.E.L.D. was ripped apart. I passed him many times, but there are two times which I remember clearly.

Once, when he sat in the midst of drowning bodies, thinking, always thinking. I ripped apart souls and stuffed them into my pocket.

I swear, he looked at me.

Maybe it was a trick of the light, but I still cannot be sure. His green eyes stared at me (or maybe, the wall?), just as they had when Lisbeth Fitz died.

"Everything has changed." Fitz whispered.

I agreed.

I continued to pick my way through mortals, until I saw the real object of Fitz's attention. Among the wreckage was a young girl, around nineteen. Blond hair shrouded her face and I recognized her. Her name was Ruth Coleman. She had been Fitz's childhood friend.

As I dragged her along (all those agents were fighters, damn them), Fitz's eyes never left her. But he didn't cry, not like when his sister died. He didn't glare either, like when his father was shot. Instead, he stared with the emptiness of a man who's lost.

And oh, Fitz had lost.

The second time was when he stumbled into the ocean with none other than Jemma Simmons. I was there, waiting to carry their souls up to the sun again. I heard him admit his affections and give his life. It was all very sweet.

Until.

He didn't die.

I was almost angry, save for the fact that I was quite fond of Leopold Fitz by this point. I made sure he wouldn't suddenly keel over and die, and then I went on my way.

That was how Fitz cheated me once.

He cheats me once more, before I can catch him.

* * *

The fifth time, there was no Fitzsimmons. It was just Fitz, and a frown resting on his face, because he was hers, and she was his, and she'd just left him, when he  _needed her most._

a picture (by Death):

a man sits alone on a stool. A shade of gray naps on the floor.  
Days have passed. Yellow bathes the windows.  
He hasn't eaten, shaved, or bathed. Red drips from his veins.  
He is lonely. Music and schematics echo in red down his veins.

His mind is in ruins, and for the hundredth time he wonders if he can still play like no one's business. His fingers twitch, but he doesn't act on it. A handful of pills rest in his hands, white like snow.

A glass of water at his side, beckoning.

She left.

His mind left.

a question:

_What is left?_

He takes them, swallowing heavily and leaning forward. I stand next to him, waiting. It's been a light day, and I wanted to see how he would meet me.

The minutes trickle by.

He slumps forward and I crack my fingers.

That is when Phil walks in.

He looks at the boy, and then me, to which I nod. Like a hero (which he is) He takes Fitz in his arms and carries him to the infirmary.

I do not get my way with him.

* * *

Everything has changed.

Those are the words he spoke, when he saw his childhood friend murdered by S.H.I.E.L.D. Everything has changed.

When Jemma Simmons agrees to go on a date with him, those are the words he thinks.

Oh, Fitzsimmons.

Poor Fitzsimmons.

* * *

Her eyes were coming home.

Whenever he saw her, it was home.

But he hasn't her eyes in ages, and so he hasn't seen home in ages.

When Phil Coulson calls Fitz into his office, he doesn't have high hopes. "Have you talked to your mother lately?" Phil asks him. There's an unsettling silence.

"Isn't she dead?"

"No, we've been taking care of her, shielding her. Just like we swore we would."

The Scottish genius takes a seat. "You have?"

"You thought we hadn't?" Phil seems offended.

"I just assumed that, when S.H.I.E.L.D. fell... that she... you... forgot..." He trails off, his eyes brightening a bit.

"We're a S.H.I.E.L.D., Fitz. We protect." Coulson grins.

"Even my mum?"

A pause.

Kept promises.

"Especially your mom."

Okay, so maybe not everything has changed.

* * *

She dies the day after Fitz visits her. He comes in to say goodbye, and she's dead. If he could see me, he would've seen a shrouded figure grasping his mother tight. A smile rests on her face. Her eyes are closed.

Dying red hair strewn across her cheek. Wide forehead. Amelia Fitz. His mother. Dead.

He can't say he's surprised, but it does startle him a bit, and his hand covers his mouth. So many dead. Now her.

I hold her tenderly, for she's worn down and not so brave. I pass him, the shaking Scottish genius, and as I do, I can hear him breaking.

I didn't see him again until many years later.

* * *

Freckles. She had freckles all over her forehead. Now, there is only blood. When Fitz finds his Simmons, after many, many years, she still has that same smile, albeit a bit tired and tainted. "You're late." She whispers to him, as he half drags her away from danger.

He might be a genius, but he's not that strong.

"I got caught in traffic." He responds, choking over his tears. She smiles at him.

He smiles back.

Fitzsimmons.

* * *

When she wakes, there is singing. A guitar being strummed, quietly. "Hazel eyes, painted skies, the blood has dried and I'm in love; you cried."

When she turns her head, she sees him.

the image Jemma SImmons took in:

_Leopold Fitz._   
Holding a guitar.  
Singing.  
_ To her. _

He's got the voice of an angel. His fingers ghost the frets like they are at home. She wonders just how much has change since she was gone.

"Since yesterday, everything's changed, dark hair plastered across a freckled face; you've mastered the art of owning me."

She's smiling at him now, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"Eighteen, nineteen, I held the door. And your eyes told me I'd come home, all I've known since June the eight is that everything has changed."

His green eyes dart upwards and his face turns bright red.

"I didn't know you could sing." Jemma murmurs.

He shrugs. "You know how I'm a genius?"

"I do."

"Well, I'm twice as brilliant in music than in mechanics."

Simmons' mouth drops. "You're  _kidding."_

Coulson and Daisy choose that moment to stride in. "Fortunately," Phil says, "He's not."

"As soon as I found out he was a prodigy," Daisy smirks, "I made him sing me to sleep."

Fitz groans. "I knew I shouldn't have picked up an instrument again."

"I'm glad you did." Simmons responds.

There's a silence.

Everyone looks at Fitz.

The guitar strums.

* * *

When Fitz dies, it's in battle. Many years later, while Simmons is at home with their children, he slips off to search for the remains of a broken shield.

He finds an alien holding the last of Captain America's own, and it takes Fitz's life to get it back.

When Leopold Fitz meets me, he's sitting up. Bright green eyes stare at me with a patience that a Scottish man shouldn't have.

"Hello, old friend." He says, by way of greeting.

"Sing me a tune, why don't you?" I respond.

"My pleasure."

one last souvenir for you:

as I help the man up,  
he sings me the tale of a Scottish genius.  
I still think of it, sometimes.

Really, it's pitiful, how I saw Leopold Fitz seven times.

 


End file.
